Élégance Sauvage
by lavellanpls
Summary: [NSFW] Alternatively titled "The Halamshiral Incident." In which the Inquisitor is a little shit, the servants are awfully nosy, and Solas can't quite seem to keep his eyes (or hands) off a certain trouble-making elf...


She had to wear a dress.

Insisted. _Persisted_. Went against direct orders and went ahead and did it, in the end. That evening Lavellan stepped out of her carriage dressed not in the uniform so meticulously tailored for her, but a gown—a blood-red dress with a plunging neck that hugged a touch too tightly to the curve of her hips. Decidedly _not_ a uniform. She'd matched her lipstick to the shade of her gown—a deep and venomous red. Beneath each amber eye, she'd painted a flared line of gold.

Josephine had been incensed. Vivienne, delighted.

Solas could only sigh.

"And what happens if you're called upon to fight?" he inquired.

To which she grinned, struck a regal stance, and kicked her leg through a hip-high slit in her dress. "Elegance," she recited, " _and_ practicality."

Solas kept his eyes deliberately fixed on her face. "Practical would be wearing something underneath it."

"Not for what I have planned."

Right. His gaze trailed down to her shiny new pair of heels. "And the shoes?"

"Those are for more aesthetic reasons," she admitted. "Although I have it on very good authority that they make for an effective stabbing apparatus."

A promising start to the night, then.

* * *

Their arrival was announced to the court, names and titles recited in an echoing boom as they crossed the ballroom floor. The introductions were typical enough, for the most part.

 _Madame Vivienne. First Enchanter to the Circle of Magi. Enchanter of the Imperial Court. Mistress to the Duke of Ghislain._

 _Lord Dorian Pavus. Member of the Circle of Vyrantium. Son of Lord Magister Halward Pavus of Asariel._

 _The Lady Inquisitor's elven serving man, Solas._ (Honestly, an introduction he'd take over whatever bizarre alternatives they surely considered.)

Then there was Lilith's—the first and unfortunately most memorable of them.

"Lady Inquisitor Lilith of Clan Lavellan," the announcer grandly boomed. "The unyielding. Fade-walker. Rift-healer. Godslayer. And, er…renowned lady killer."

Solas' cold stare teetered precariously on a glare. Lilith only winked.

"Would you believe it only took fifteen royals?" she whispered.

"No."

"Good call. It took thirty." Her polite smile sharpened to a snicker. "You know you're awfully sharp for a serving man."

"You flatter me."

"Good. I'm trying."

* * *

She greeted the Empress with a fluid bow, and somehow managed to answer every one of her questions with another question. Celene positively _adored_ it. Solas only watched.

Curious.

Lavellan spent the night stalking the halls of the palace like a tiger through the jungle—the swift, rolling stride of a beast who knows no predator. Solas heard the click of her heels echo across the marble floors and could think only of claws. He couldn't quite help but smile.

 _Hunt well,_ he thought.

 _Devour them whole._

And _oh,_ that she did.

He watched her wring information from guests without them ever knowing—clever, winding questions that tricked them into saying more than they intended.

"Duke Germain," she greeted behind a convincing mask of familiarity. "You must be quite pleased to see so much of your family in attendance. I've spoken with Gaspard, but I'm afraid I haven't seen nearly as much of your niece."

"My niece Florianne hasn't spoken to me all evening," he said with a nod of agreement. "That's not like her."

Lavellan's smile turned a touch sharper. "How curious," she said.

Yes. Curious indeed.

Later she approached a pair of whispering elves hidden off in the corner, servants with wary stares. She flagged them down with a cheerful wave, and feigned confusion when they turned. "Oh, forgive me," she said. "For a moment I mistook you for a good friend of mine. I'd hoped she'd be working tonight. Perhaps you know her—Ellana?"

"You know Ellana?" Suddenly the elf's demeanor shifted; coldness melting with a warm smile. "Goodness. She never said."

The two were far more open to divulge information after that.

Solas pulled the Inquisitor discreetly aside, after. "How did you know there would be a woman here by that name?"

"What, are you serious?" She snorted. " _Everyone_ knows an elf named Ellana."

 _Curious,_ he thought.

Very…curious.

Solas watched, baffled, as Lavellan swiftly charmed a tipsy nobleman out of a large bejeweled ring.

"What did you do?" he asked when she swept past, and was answered with a tinkling note of fake laughter.

"What I do best," she supplied. " _Persuade_."

Her confidence, he was sure, was the only thing that saved her—for anyone else, her line of questioning would translate to _interrogation;_ her clandestine explorations to _snooping_. Anyone else, especially an _elf,_ would have struggled just to keep the court's opinion neutral.

Solas supposed that was his first mistake—assuming Lilith would behave like anyone else. He lost track of how many people she talked to, but of one thing he was certain: she did not once give a single straight answer.

She played them. All of them. Like orchestrating a grand game. Played mysterious when questions probed too deep, clouding suspicions under a mask of clever intrigue; sliced deep with cold precision stares and bewitched with a wink and smile. She was a terror. She was a vision. She'd burn Orlais to the ground.

Solas was not without reaction.

She twirled past, on a new quest to enchant and destroy, but dropped back to lay a hand on his shoulder. "My elven serving man," she murmured with a ruby-lipped smirk. She dropped her voice lower. "So when can I expect to be served?"

"Enjoying yourself, I take it?"

" _Amusing_ myself, at least. Possibly robbing people; the lines are a bit blurry." Her eyes narrowed. "You seem more comfortable with a grand Orlesian ball than I'd have expected."

"I have seen countless such displays in my journeys in the Fade," he covered. "The powerful have always been the same. Only the costumes change." He raised a curious brow. "May I inquire as to where a Dalish elf learned courtly intrigue?"

"Because _people_ have always been the same," she countered. "And it's not all that hard to intrigue them."

"Surely you deserve more credit than that."

"Well, I'll take _some_ credit. I mean just look at me—I'm so damn _cute_."

Solas wasn't sure that was the description he would go with. He'd admit his gaze may have drifted for a moment…

It was a _lovely_ dress.

Among other things.

* * *

Of course there was a fight.

Of course Lilith refused to change.

A trail of blood had led them to the courtyard. Venatori agents were waiting. Midway through the fray a masked warrior snagged Lavellan by the end of her trailing skirt; gave a hard _tug_ and brought her crashing to her hands and knees. Solas was almost concerned—until she whipped her skirt away and kicked him square in the ribs with enough force to crunch the bones inward.

" _Elegance,_ motherfucker!" She stood and neatly readjusted her bodice. " _And_ practicality."

Of course.

* * *

Lavellan had informed them only days before the ball that she did not know how to dance. No, sorry—she did not know how to _formally_ dance. She proved very well acquainted with other types of dancing. Unfortunately none which wouldn't give their poor Ambassador a heart attack.

Leliana made the mistake of asking for an example.

"Give me a beat," she'd replied, and while Leliana clapped out a tentative rhythm Lilith launched into what Solas could only describe as a frankly impressive amount of gyration. (Some of which required no small amount of flexibility, which was…an _interesting_ discovery.)

"Oh, watch how low I can get," she challenged, and Josephine jumped in with a firmly insistent " _No._ "

Solas wasn't sure entirely what to say. Although he heard a very flustered-sounding Cullen whisper incredulously, "Does the woman not have a _spine?_ "

"I can teach her," Solas assured their defeated Ambassador. "It should not take long."

Once he'd finally convinced Lilith that no, Orlesian nobility would _not_ be particularly appreciative of her ability to fall into the splits, the lesson actually went quite well. She picked up the rhythm of it with ease, steps rolling smoothly into each other as he guided her through a waltz. Although the fluid swivel of her hips when she spun was… _distracting,_ to say the least.

She'd tugged on his arm midway through. "Hey, let me dip you."

"No."

"I need to learn how to dip; I promise I won't drop you."

"You will not need to dip anyone," he said.

"You can't guarantee that. Come on, it'll be fun."

"You're too short."

"My center of gravity is lower," she countered.

"Lilith," he insisted. " _No_."

* * *

Late into the evening the Grand Duchess pulled her aside and requested a dance, which Lilith was all too happy to accept.

Of course she dipped her.

The Orlesians _adored_ it.

When she passed by him again after her impromptu dance, she paused only long enough to grab a firm handful of his ass.

He jumped.

" _Still waiting on that service_ ," she murmured, and swept away with a wink.

Solas watched her go, silent and _maddeningly_ flushed.

There would be no living with her after this.

* * *

Her public reveal of Florianne's plot was perhaps Solas' favorite event of the evening. She tore the Grand Duchess to shreds with quick, clever words and eyes that sliced like daggers; kept her pinned with perfect decorum as she unraveled her plans in booming detail. He watched safely hidden in the crowd as all of Florianne's bravado withered, squirming further and further into nonexistence with each step Lilith took closer. She never even had a chance.

"You lost this fight ages ago, Your Grace." Laughter simmered beneath her words, a victorious note of confidence. "You're just the last to find out."

The guards dragged Florianne away, hanging limp between them, while Celene heaped praise upon the Inquisition. Just as they passed Lavellan, though, the duchess reeled back; knocked heavily against the guard at her elbow and sent him crashing into Lilith. They both toppled, the room erupting in a chorus of gasps, and with her only opportunity in sight, Florianne _ran_. She made it two sweeping strides before Lilith tore off one of her shoes, lunged forward, and promptly jammed the heel into Florianne's knee.

"Elegance!" she shouted, voice a full, ringing battle cry. " _And_ practicality!"

A flurry of guards descended upon Florianne, sobbing between furious curses, while Lavellan neatly stood. She brushed off her dress—still just a _touch_ too tight for Solas not to stare—and held her arms wide. " _Long live the empire,_ " she shouted, and the court erupted in applause. " _Long live the Inquisition!_ "

She caught his eye from across the room and winked.

 _Truly,_ he thought.

 _A lovely dress…_

* * *

Solas found her alone on the balcony, after. Staring out at a starry sky. He asked her to dance, and she accepted with a blood-red smile that shot straight to his heart.

"Only if I can dance my way."

"We'll compromise," he said, and pulled her close with his hand at her hip.

He hadn't realized how much he missed dancing.

Hadn't realized how much he wanted to dance with _her_.

He caught Lilith's hand just as it started to creep up the front of his shirt. "Perhaps now is not the ideal time."

"I just ended a civil war and saved an empire," she pointed out. "Now is a _perfect_ time."

"Even gilded walls have ears."

"Oh, I'm counting on it."

It took three undone buttons before he finally convinced himself to stop her.

"We are not doing this here."

"You're right," she agreed. "Not when there's a whole wing of empty suites with locking doors."

"It's the Winter Palace," he argued. "And we are _guests_ of the _Empress_."

She slid her fingers wide against his chest. "In 9:40 Dragon an elven trader in Halamshiral was brutally murdered after taking the blame for a child who threw a rock a nobleman's coach. The violence acted as a catalyst—fed up with their continued abuse at human hands, the city's elves staged a rebellion. In hopes of quelling the uprising, and subsequently to battle rumors that she'd been too lenient with elves, Celene's troops burned Halamshiral's elven slums to the ground, and the elves with it. Whole families, _people,_ up in smoke-and for nothing better than a certain Empress's pernicious self-interest." Her head cocked just _so_. "So yeah, I'd say lending me a room is the least Celene could do."

That should not have been arousing.

"It's because I said 'pernicious,'" she preemptively supplied. "And because I look amazing in this dress."

Solas could hardly argue that. "And what is it you propose we do, exactly?"

She held up the key to Celene's chambers, apparently pocketed away after the night's events, and pulled him close by the collar of his jacket with a wicked grin. "What do you say we leave the Empress something to remember us by?"

"Lilith," he warned.

"Halamshiral," she countered.

And perhaps he'd had too much wine that evening, because he didn't argue that.

It truly was a beautiful dress.

Personally peeling it off of her would be exquisite.

* * *

No one took notice when they slipped off to the royal wing. The party's festivities were too far underway, the guests too caught up in celebrations of victory. They found Celene's room and swiftly locked the door behind them.

Lilith pulled herself up to sit primly on the edge of a desk, legs crossed strategically at the knee, and beckoned Solas close with a sinful, slow-growing smile. He stepped forward and found himself halted by a pointed heel pressed flat to his chest. "Told you I needed to know how to dip," she said.

Solas was almost foolish enough to argue that. But not quite. He caught her by the ankle before she could pull her leg back; tugged her abruptly forward until he was the only thing keeping her from falling, hands sliding slowly up her leg. "So you did," he granted, and just as she moved to gloat silenced her with a kiss.

He trailed his hand up the slit in her dress, fingertips pressing firmer into the tender flesh of her thighs; found her wet and ready for him, legs spreading wider at his touch. Eager. Always so _eager_. She rolled her hips, desperate for friction, and murmured breathless commands to press _there, yes, deeper, more._

He kept her ever on edge, a steady, teasing pressure; eased his fingers into her with slow and torturous care until she clung to him, a trembling mess whispering strings of filthy promises. She tried to tilt her hips, grind into his touch, but he pulled back at every stuttering push, pressure too light to bring satisfaction.

Her frustrated huff bordered dangerously on a growl. "Don't be rude," she chastised.

He answered with a quick twist of fingers that pulled soft curses from her lips.

" _Rude,_ " she repeated, but when she kissed him again it was through a mad grin. She reached to pull at his waistband, tugged at fabric with intent to tear, and he hissed in a soft breath when she finally took his cock in hand and deftly stroked.

"Impatient?" he remarked, and she pulled him near by the collar of his open coat.

"If you don't hurry up and fuck me," she warned, "I'm liable to do it myself."

"So demanding," he tried to chastise through a growing smirk. "What happened to all that painstaking decorum?"

"Whatever's left of it is about to come off with this dress. Assuming you ever get around to it."

Well. If she so insisted.

He caught her by the wrist and stilled her with a kiss. A rushed, hungry meeting of parted lips. The fabric of her dress bunched around her hips, a pool of red, until finally he managed to still himself long enough to tug it over her head.

Perhaps forgoing undergarments wasn't quite as impractical as he'd thought.

He earned a delighted gasp when he finally sank into her, her hand clasped tight to the back of his neck. Forehead pressed to his, they shared quick, heated breaths, the sharpened tips of her nails digging deeper into his skin with each shallow _push_.

"Bed," she demanded. " _Now_."

Pulling out of her was an agonizing request, but perhaps worth it if only for the chance to watch her skip naked up the steps to sprawl across the downturned sheets of Celene's bed. "How many people do you think died in the process of making these sheets?" she asked. "I'm betting at least seven."

But Solas was having a hard time concentrating on questions at the moment.

She wiggled back against the plush sheets, humming laughter, and Solas was struck. She looked like the subject of some obscene painting—an elven temptress, beckoning come closer; a ruby-lipped maiden encircled in silk to grace some undeserving nobleman's gallery.

He thought, fleetingly, that Josephine may not approve of that portrait.

Then his gaze fell to where beads of arousal dripped slick trails down the insides of her thighs; to the fullness of her hips; the soft swell of heaving breasts.

This time he did not wait.

He entered in one swift thrust—kept her pinned with a hungry kiss and a firm hold of her wrists, bound above her head. He released her only to still her bucking hips with a bruising grip.

" _Patience,_ " he reminded, and she answered by surging up to catch his lips and _bite_.

"No."

She met the steady cant of his hips with a slow, languid roll, breath hitching each time his cock slid just _so_ inside her, pressed up and into her so _sweetly_ it made her fingers curl. If she rolled her hips just right, hit the perfect angle-

A firm, slick _thrust_ pushed a gasp from her lungs. Her hand fluttered, searching, until he laced fingers with hers and pinned her still. He kissed her—fervent and breathless and _savoring_ —and finally they moved together. A blissful rhythm.

His pace stuttered when she gave a sharp, keening gasp. "Wait, wait, wait wait- stop, stop moving!" She fluttered a hand against his chest to still them both, her other busy clawing tracks into Celene's expensive silk sheets. "Hold still; _stay_."

He did. Barely. "Did you just order me to _stay?_ "

"You listened, didn't you?" She settled gingerly back, lips a thin, determined line. "Give me a second. I need to- Mm. Just…don't move yet. Not yet."

Her eyes slipped shut as she tried to breathe evenly through an electric ripple of nerves. This needed to last. Needed to be _savored._ This was the blessed culmination of a slow and torturous dance, an evening's worth of whispered promises, a delicious opportunity they'd never have again, and _damn it,_ these sheets were _divine_. She let her head sink back, breath measured, and tried not to focus on the fullness inside her.

But then he pulled back, and the slow drag of pressure jolted her through to her core. She halted him in place with her legs locked tight around him. " _Wait_. I need a minute."

"I thought you needed a second," he huffed.

"I need a second minute." She shuddered through a tight-lipped exhale. "I'm not done with this yet. Just…don't move."

And normally a command he would happily obey, but… With each shallow gasp she tightened around him; let him sink just _barely_ deeper, and that…would be a problem. Very soon.

" _Vhenan_." He tried to quell a wave of need with a steady breath. "If your intention is to last, this is not ideal."

"Quick," she prompted, "think of something unsexy."

"Please don't."

"Widespread poverty," she supplied regardless. "Dead puppies. The cold inevitability of death that plagues all living things. Taxes. Whatever red crystal mess Corypheus has got hiding under that skirt."

" _Lilith_."

"Wait, I've got more."

He silenced her with a crushing kiss; elicited a strangled moan when his teeth found her throat and fingers curled into the fullness of her breast, until finally he could wrap himself around her body and _take_ her—bury himself inside her, feel the muscles of her thighs tense as she was pulled closer and closer to the edge. Her commands had long lost coherence, reduced to broken pleas for _more, there, yes, please_ that dissolved quickly into wordless gasps. She called for god, for the Maker, Creators. And then she called his name—repeated it in hushed breaths like verses of a prayer—and Solas was lost.

He rocked into her, deeper, steady; reveled in the litany of her tiny gasps. She came with his name on her lips—a breathless punch of sound. His own release following close behind, he slowed long enough to manage, "Inside?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, yes, yes…"

She raked sharpened nails across his skin, voice a breathless cry, and Solas could think only of claws.

He hadn't meant to call her name when he came, and yet it echoed through the cavernous room in a ringing cry.

He had never been more grateful for locking doors.

The sheets, predictably, were ruined. Ripped through where her nails found purchase and sticky with sweat and…other things. Propped against the ornate headboard, the pillow bore a perfect red imprint of her lips. The evidence was not subtle.

That did not stop Lilith from neatly tucking everything back into place, sheets strategically folded into a pristine display. She made sure to pull a blanket over just _so_ —a perfect cover.

"Oh, wait…" Without a word she slipped a pillowcase from the bed and used it to wipe at the sticky mess between her legs before returning it to its place. "For Halamshiral," she vowed.

"Halamshiral," he breathlessly agreed. "…you realize you're only making more work for the servants, do you not?"

"I think I speak for everyone in this palace tonight when I say it's worth it."

* * *

They ran into Dorian on their way back to the ball. "Look," he greeted with a smirk, "someone's already written me a love letter!" He spared exactly three seconds to look up before returning to his letter with a dismissive _hmph_. "You've got lipstick on your ear." He mirrored it on his own. "Right there. And _you_ need to fix your hair."

Lilith tucked an errant tendril of hair behind her ear. "Thanks. You're the best."

"Lovely dress, by the way," he commented offhand. "I'm sure it looked even better on the floor."

And yes. It very much did.

Solas noticed the two elven servants from earlier loitering off in the wings, whispering something hushed between themselves. They gave Lilith a curt nod as she passed.

"Inquisitor," they greeted, and Lilith answered with a wink.

" _Ladies_."

He heard the echo of their tittering laughter all the way down the hall.

* * *

They returned to Skyhold to find a fresh mountain of letters—congratulations, expressions of gratitude, a couple thinly-veiled threats, and a decent handful of marriage proposals. Solas supposed he should not have been surprised.

"They _loved_ me," Lavellan beamed, and Josephine could only sigh.

"They've started wearing knives in their shoes. They're calling it _'élégance sauvage.'_ "

"Loved me," she affirmed. "I'm a trendsetter."

"You also received a rather… _curious_ gift from an elven servant. They did not give a name." She handed over an opened parcel with a brief letter attached. " _Fuck the empire,_ " it read in spidery hand. " _Long live the Inquisitor_."

Inside was a single silk pillowcase.


End file.
